Less is More
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She's nervous, and she's not sure she likes the feeling. Emma Swan feels more herself tonight than she has in a long time, but there's still something tying her to the past. At the same time, Killian Jones is chasing his own past, because a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. (Contains canon dialogue that doesn't belong to me)
1. Chapter 1

She's nervous, and she's not sure she likes the feeling.

She's not used to being nervous, at least not before a date.

_Maybe that's because you're already counting on there being a second date_, a little voice whispers in her head, and she doesn't bother trying to chase it away. She wants this to work. She wants there to be another date. She wants to be happy.

He makes her happy.

He makes her nervous, too.

The last date she'd spent more than ten minutes getting ready for had been her last night with Walsh, and she hadn't been nervous then, even with all the 'eight month anniversary' hoopla that had come with it. Not that she knew at the time that it was going to be her last date with Walsh, of course. She didn't know he was going to turn out to be a flying monkey in the service of the freaking Wicked Witch of the West either, so she's pretty sure _that_ particular evening is going to keep its position at the top of her personal 'freakiest dates ever' list for a long time to come.

She remembers getting ready for that date like it was yesterday. She was happy to be seeing Walsh that night, happy to be having dinner at one of her favourite places, happy that she'd had a productive day at work. She'd found that black leather dress soon after she and Henry had arrived (she's never found a better way to describe it other than 'magically appearing out of nowhere') in New York City, and she had fallen in love with it at first night. At the time, if anyone had asked her, she couldn't have explained why. Sure, she had some old leather jackets in her wardrobe, but a black leather dress? Now, though, she thinks she knows why it caught her eye.

She'd been instinctively searching for the things she'd lost.

And it wasn't just the leather dress. In New York, she and Henry never ate apples, not once. He'd asked for video games involving ye olde knights and dragons again and again, and she'd never thought to say no or suggest a different genre. After her memories had been restored, she'd looked at all the nautical-themed décor in her apartment and prayed to God that Killian was too consumed with the situation in Storybrooke to notice.

Even now, the memory has the power to make her face grow hot.

He'd been in her head all that time, even when she didn't remember him _or_her real self, and now she's standing in front of the mirror in her tiny bedroom in her parent's apartment, looking at her reflection and wondering what _this_ dress says about her current state of mind.

It's something she might have chosen years ago. Before she met Neal. Before Neal left her. Before everything went wrong. It's pretty and soft and it fits her like a glove, and just looking at her reflection makes her smile. She might have chosen this dress with a particular man in mind, but it's for her, too.

(She knows now that the black leather dress had been for her, too. Not Walsh.)

She stares at her reflection. Something's still not right, though, and she knows exactly what it is, and maybe that's part of why she's so nervous.

She touches her right hand to her left wrist, tracing the familiar shape of Graham's bootlaces with her fingertips. She'd wrapped them around her wrist the day after he'd died in her arms and she's never taken them off, not even during her year in New York. Just like her love of maritime memorabilia and dislike of apples and Henry's addiction to playing at being a knight, she'd never questioned their presence in her life.

Her swan necklace belongs to Henry now. He'd wanted a memento of his father, and she's heard him talking to David about turning it back into a key ring when he's officially old enough to drive. Her silver pendant hadn't looked right with this new dress, so she'd taken it off without a moment's hesitation.

That leaves just one last thing. She rubs her thumb over the bootlaces, closing her eyes as they start to prickle hotly. Aside from Mary Margaret, Graham had been her only real friend when she'd arrived in this place.

_I miss you._

The memory of his last whispered, 'thank you' will never stop breaking her heart and that he died will _never_ be okay, but it's time. Time for her to stop running. Time to stop wrapping herself in other people's armor. Time to stop living in the past.

Slowly and very carefully, she unties the laces, unravelling them from her wrist. The skin underneath is pale and soft, and the sight of her own tattoo manages to take her by surprise. Before she can change her mind, she curls the laces up just as carefully, then puts them into the top drawer of her bureau, right next to the baby blanket that says 'Emma'.

Taking a deep breath, she rubs her fingers over her bare left wrist, wondering how long it will take to get used to it feeling so light. She will never forget the people she's loved and lost, but tonight, she needs to walk out that front door without them.

Smoothing her hands down the front of her new dress, she doesn't have to check her reflection to know that she's finally ready, and in more ways than one.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Well, this is Killian's chapter, as mentioned, but there will be three parts to this now, because I'm just that hopeless. P.S. Here be angst.

* * *

><p>He finds himself standing in the middle of Granny's for at least a full minute after telling Emma Swan that he'd see her later that night. That night, on a date. A date for which she had expressly sought <em>him<em> out to arrange.

Admittedly, at least thirty seconds of that moment had been devoted to admiring the curve of her lovely arse as she'd walked towards the front door, but he can't deny this unexpected turn of events has left him feeling more than a little taken aback, and not just because he's now responsible for organising the kind of evening that will prove to Emma Swan that she hasn't made a mistake in choosing him.

"Bloody hell." Grinning (taken aback he may be, undaunted he remains), he makes his way back to the dart board and hastily retrieves his last shoot gone astray from the floor, earning himself a grudging nod of approval from the proprietor, who is holding court as usual behind the counter.

"Your aim seems a little off this morning, Captain."

He can't deny he's come to enjoy their ritual of quasi-antagonistic banter (they both know while he's appreciative of the lodgings, the Window Lucas is even more appreciative of his doubloons) and he can't help giving her a smile. "A man can't be expected to hit the bullseye every single time, surely?"

"I guess not." She studies him over the top of her glasses. "Looks to me like you managed to score just fine, anyway."

He's not entirely certain of her meaning, but given the gleam in her steel grey eyes, he can certainly hazard a guess. Not for the first time, he can't help thinking that the young she-wolf Ruby takes after her grandmother in more ways than one. "Tell me, milady, are all the establishments in this fair town as accepting of gold in exchange for goods and services as yourself?"

Granny shrugs, as if she doesn't care to discuss her business competitors. "Only a fool would knock back that kind of coin," she tells him, and he feels his heart lighten. "Why, you planning on blowing the budget with a shopping spree?"

He can't keep the smile from his face, and he's not sure he cares. "Something like that."

* * *

><p>There are some (a certain dwarf comes to mind) who might suggest he's spent far too much time idling about this town lately, but Killian prefers to think of it as learning the lay of the land. Today, he's especially glad of the time he's spent exploring Storybrooke, as there are several chores he needs to complete.<p>

The thought of taking Emma to dine at Granny's sends a shudder of distaste running through him. The lights are too bright, the radio apparatus too intrusive, and the ratio of family to strangers all too unbalanced. One evening last week, he had ventured past a well-heeled eating establishment, close to the water and smelling deliciously of spices and roasted meats. _Storybrooke's Finest Italian Cuisine_ had been the bold claim on the outdoor signage, and even though Killian suspects there actually is no other establishment offering such food in town, he's prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, there's also a lot to be said for reconnaissance.

The restaurant opens just before midday, and there are only a few tables occupied when he slips through the front door. A dark-haired, portly gent dressed in black and white walks to greet him, his face split in a welcoming smile. "Table for one, sir?"

"Actually, no," Killian begins, noting with satisfaction that the air is redolent with intriguing cooking smells (quite different to those that scent the air at Granny's) and while there is music playing, it is unobtrusive. "I wish to procure a table for this evening at eight o'clock. For two," he adds, rolling the words on his tongue.

They've been a long time coming.

The man's dark eyes light up. "A special occasion?"

"Indeed it is." _ An understatement if ever there was one_, he muses.

The other man's smile widens, as if this is exactly the kind of answer he likes to hear. "In that case, sir, we can offer you a choice of several finely situated tables. Perhaps you'd care to see the wine list in advance as well?"

Killian claps the man on the shoulder. "My good man, it appears we are indeed in accord."

Ten minutes later, he leaves the restaurant, his pockets substantially lighter than they'd been on arrival. As Granny predicted, his doubloons had been gratefully received, and he learned a long time ago that nothing ensures attentive service like a handful of gold coins. The bartender (who'd swiftly introduced himself as Anthony) had been a vintner in the Enchanted Forest, and had confided that he much preferred Storybrooke's wide selection of libations.

"Oh, I quite agree, mate," Killian had told him, and had received a smiling nod of approval. Feeling as though he'd just passed some kind of test, he'd asked the man if it were at all possible to dispense with the tawdry business of payment in advance. (He knew Emma Swan, after all, and if the customs of this realm had taught him anything, it was that the person who did the asking quite often did the paying, and he was more than willing to live up to her assertion of being old-fashioned on this point.)

His new friend had been most agreeable on this point as well, giving him another nod of approval. A sum had been agreed upon and paid (with a gentleman's agreement that any shortfall would be recompensed), and a receipt of sale issued. His business concluded, Killian had slipped back out into the bright sunshine, still warmed by the sight of the words 'Jones/Swan, party of 2' inscribed in dark blue ink in the thick book that stood on its own pedestal inside the front entrance.

He would have happily paid twice as much for the privilege of witnessing such a thing.

* * *

><p>The clothing proves a simple task, and again, it seems his choice of currency eases the pain of small talk with curious townsfolk.<p>

He's spent enough time with the Prince and his family to know what style of costume they personally favour, and he keeps this at the back of his thoughts as he walks through the display racks in the various clothing establishments. The trousers and shirt and vest are easy decisions, but the finishing touch eludes him until he is delighted by the discovery of a short black jacket that feels exactly like his old coat to the touch. It also feels to be several pounds lighter (perhaps he's exaggerating), and that seems appropriate, given the lightness that seems to have taken up residence in his heart since Emma's visit to the diner.

He adds a generous gratuity to the asking price, earning himself a grateful smile from the elderly male attendant. It also manages to stops the man from staring fixedly at his hook, which is gleaming beneath the soft lighting overhead. As his new jacket is carefully wrapped in tissue paper (this realm will never cease to astonish him), Killian fights the urge to swing his left arm behind his back, the lightness in his heart evaporating somewhat.

He takes his now wrapped jacket from the other man, hoping his smile doesn't look as brittle as it feels. He thinks now of the casual remark from the attendant in the last shop, something about his vest having a lot of buttons and would that be a problem for him? He'd paid no attention at the time, intent on finding a new pair of boots in his size, but now he can't shake it from his thoughts.

His doubloons might be able to buy him new clothing and a table full of food and wine, but they cannot mask the fact that he is not the man he once was. He will never be that man again, no matter how many new shirts or waistcoats he procures.

He walks slowly back to his lodgings at Granny's, his spirits waning. It appears he has gotten ahead of himself, blinded by the promise of Emma's company. She deserves a man worthy of her. Someone who can hold her as she deserves to be held. She deserves someone whole.

_I have magic, he's got one hand._

He's long forgiven her for those words. She'd been angry. Afraid for her son, her mother and her unborn brother. Afraid of her feelings for _him. _And yet the rebuke had stung, lodging deep in the darkest part of him, the part that fears she will also see him as he has so long seen himself.

A one-handed pirate with a drinking problem.

Reaching his lodgings, he slings the various parcels onto his rumpled bed, then casts a longing eye towards the bureau drawer where he keeps his flask.

Clenching his jaw, he turns his back on his rum supply, shrugging out of his coat and sinking down to sit on the edge of his bed. Taking a deep breath, he does something he rarely does. Unclicking his hook, he puts it to one side, then unstraps the brace on his left wrist. Once it's bare, he rests his elbows on his knees, and forces himself to regard the blatant discrepancy he's long taught himself to ignore.

His hand was not the only thing the Dark One had taken from him that day. Milah's memory pains him still, as naturally as taking breath, and he knows he will never forget her, not her laughter, nor her tears of pain as she died in his arms. The gleaming hook he wears is a constant reminder of everything he has lost that day - Milah, his bone and flesh, his rationality – and the fact that the Dark One is currently enjoying matrimonial bliss with a woman seemingly blind to his machinations sticks in his gut like a sour burr.

_The imbalance must be redressed._

The thought comes to him unbidden, but once it has burst into life, there is no turning his back on it. He knows now what he must do. Getting to his feet, he pulls on his coat before donning his brace and hook once more. _If he succeeds in this little venture_, he muses, a dark excitement weaving itself though his thoughts, _perhaps it will be for the last time._

He takes one last look at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau, then goes to make a deal with the Devil.

* * *

><p>Many hours later, the warmth of Emma's kiss chases away the dark dread that is curling through his heart. His left hand tingles briefly in her grasp, as if in protest, then all he feels is her skin against his. This kiss is her answer, her promise that this is only the beginning for them, and his hunger for her (always present, never dormant) begins to burn through his blood.<p>

They both know this kiss can go no further tonight, and perhaps that's what makes them bold. She nips at his bottom lip, her tongue delicately tasting his, and he swallows a groan as he wraps his arms around her. His hands (Gods, his hands) are flush against the curve of her spine, pressing her closer, his body stirring into life at the feel and taste and smell of her. She makes a soft sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, her hand trembling as she touches his face, her body pressing softly against where he is hard and aching. He slides his left hand upwards, his fingertips finding the soft fall of her hair, and the tingling sensation beneath his skin begins again, a faint fluttering like a minnow darting through shallow water.

His blood chills, despite the heat burning through the rest of his body, and he's only vaguely aware of Emma's breathy sigh of frustration as she pulls back from their kiss. "Okay."

His heart is hammering, and he wishes with every part of his being that it was only because of her kiss, yet he know it is not. She smiles at him, her eyes glowing with happiness, and the sight pulls him back to her. "Goodnight, Killian." Her voice is soft, inviting, beckoning him closer even as she bids him farewell.

His left hand curled in a fist at his side, he smiles, hoping she can't see the fear in his eyes. "Goodnight."

The door closes behind her, shutting out the light, leaving him in the darkness, alone in the place where magic always comes with a price.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, she manages to keep her composure until the door is firmly shut between them, then she very quietly panics.

Her heart pounding and the taste of Killian's mouth still on her tongue, Emma presses her fingernails into the hard wood of the door behind her, but that doesn't stop the words from echoing madly in her head.

_It's what the kiss exposed._

_That is, until I met you._

Oh, God.

Oh, _God._

"So how was it?"

She's faced dragons and ogres and witches (not to mention a demonic manchild), but at the sound of her mother's perky voice, Emma almost jumps out of her skin. Her parents are sitting on the couch, waiting up for her as if she's fifteen and finally home from her very first date. It's weird and kind of adorable, and she can't help smiling. "You guys are still awake."

Her mother's expectant smile almost reaches from ear to ear. "We want to hear everything about the date."

Her father's expression, on the other hand, is much more subdued. "Just for the record, _some_ of us don't want to hear everything."

Mary Margaret is literally on the edge of her seat. "How was the restaurant? Do you go anywhere after?" The pitch of her voice gets higher with each new question. "Was there a goodnight kiss?"

_And there it is, _Emma thinks wryly, just as her father issues a weary disclaimer.

"That, for instance, is one of the things I don't want to know about."

"I really need to get my own place," she mutters, then smiles at them, because she _loves_ them, even if they have no idea of personal boundaries. "Night, guys."

She manages to resist the urge to put her fingers in her ears as she climbs the stairs (they're still talking about her and Killian), and finally takes refuge in her bedroom. She wants to be alone to savour and relive and worry over the last few hours, and maybe even work out exactly what it is that she's feeling.

That she wants him is a no brainer. They'd kissed for less than a minute, but her skin is still tingling and she has the feeling that her toes are still curled in her new pumps. When they finally do fall into bed together (and she's long stopped pretending that it's not going to happen), she has no doubt it will be worth the wait.

Her stomach flips over at the thought, remembering the feel of him pressed against her from shoulder to hip as they'd kissed, the way their bodies had fit together so perfectly. If they'd been somewhere with the slightest hint of privacy, that kiss would have gone a lot differently. Up against the nearest wall, maybe, and she has to admit, she's feeling more than a little cheated.

It's not just about sex, though, and that should scare the freaking crap out of her. It doesn't, and _that_ should terrify her.

"I'm way too sober for this," she mutters to herself as she drops onto the edge of her edge and unbuckles the tiny straps of her shoes. Tomorrow, in the light of day, they'll see each other and they'll talk and chase after monsters and grab some coffee. Maybe, if they can find a moment away from this town's prying eyes, she'll kiss him again.

She dresses for bed, carefully hanging up her dress with a wistful sigh. The wine stain is barely noticeable (thank God for white wine drinkers), but she's still going to have to get it dry-cleaned. She vaguely wonders who the town's resident dry-cleaner might have been in their Enchanted Forest life, but her brain is too fried to think of any suitable candidates.

Ten minutes later, face scrubbed and teeth cleaned, she's staring up at the ceiling through the darkness, that damned kiss still playing on an endless loop in her head. Every time she gets to the part where his hands slide over her back and his tongue strokes along her bottom lip, heat lurches through her belly. Every time it happens, she presses her thighs together tightly and tries to convince herself she doesn't really need to do exactly what she's about to do.

Oh, but she does need it, though, needs to ease the ache that's taken up residence between her legs and in her breasts, heavy and insistent. Closing her eyes, she slips her hands beneath her pyjamas, cupping a breast in one hand and the slippery heat between her thighs in the other, and thinks of him.

It's not the first time she's sent herself off to a good night's sleep inspired by Killian Jones (she will go to her grave refusing to admit it) but tonight, she knows it's not going to take very long at all, not when she's already halfway there.

Inside her head, Killian only has one hand (just as he always does), and the curve of his hook is cool against her skin as it slides over her breast, finding and teasing her aching nipple as his hand dips between her legs. His tongue plunges into her mouth, the rough hair on his chest scraping against her breasts and belly as he moves over her, finally pushing himself inside her, hard and thick and-

_Fuck._

She comes hard, shuddering, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in an effort to keep from crying out, her release pulsing against her fingers, thrumming through her like a silent shockwave.

Her chest is still heaving when she hears the unmistakable sound of her baby brother starting to cry on the floor below, quickly followed by the heavy tread of her father's footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Emma makes a half-hearted attempt to straighten her pyjamas, then gives up, pulling the sheet up to her chin and sighs into the darkness.

She really_ does _need to get her own place.

* * *

><p>He dreams of Emma.<p>

He dreams of Emma, then he awakens in the too-bright sunlight with a mouth that tastes like rum soaked cotton to the sound of the Crocodile's wishing him a cheerful _good morning_. His left hand feels heavy and foreign, a leaden weight at the end of his arm in a way that his brace and hook have never been.

From a night of dreams to a sunlit nightmare, the other man's mocking use of the word 'Captain' is like a dagger twisting in his gut. He shrugs into his jacket and awaits his orders (his bloody punishment for daring to want to be a whole man after all this time) and a moment later finds himself trudging after a walking broomstick.

There is very little that can surprise him these days, he decides, his eyes squinting into the early morning sunshine.

He soon revises that notion. Yet again, he has underestimated the lengths to which the Crocodile will go in his thirst for power. What follows in the small house on the outskirts of town will haunt him until the end of his days. Another innocent dead (or suffering the worst kind of entrapment) at the hands of the Crocodile, while _he_ stood by and let it happen.

Afterwards, the Dark One takes his hand a second time, then extracts another pound of flesh along with a proposition. Join him, and Emma will never know her new love has just aided and abetted in a heinous crime. Cross him, and suffer the consequences.

_Trapped in a cage of his own bloody making_, Killian fumes darkly as he strides away from Gold's shop in the vague direction of Granny's, _and the only key will lose him the woman he loves more than he ever thought possible._

He will fix this. Somehow, he will find a way.

He no longer cares that he has lost a hand.

He cannot lose himself.

He cannot lose _her_.

He is so very afraid he will lose both.

* * *

><p>Will Scarlett, former Merry Man and petty thief, is snoring like a chainsaw when she finally gets to the station after her brief encounter with the Snow Queen in the alleyway. The sight distracts her briefly (seriously, how badly behaved do you have to be to get kicked out of a band of outlaws?) before she launches into her story for David and Elsa's benefit. They listen intently, then David pats the town census books he'd brought from the loft. "Now that we know the name she's been using in the Storybrooke, we can find out her background and maybe start figuring out what the hell she's doing here."<p>

Emma nods – the name David had mentioned hadn't meant anything to her, which only added to her frustration – and quickly dashes off a text message to Killian.

_I ran into our resident Ice Cream seller this morning. Meet me at the station and I'll tell you all about it? Coffee's on me._

Their new village idiot slumbers on, and Emma decides to let sleeping thieves lie. She seems to recall him being very annoying when he's awake, so she may as well make the most of it. She flips through the book that Belle had found lying on the floor beside him in the library (Emma can't begin to imagine who this guy really is, but she's going to find out) then studies the torn out page that he'd shoved into his pocket.

"The Red Queen," she reads aloud, then narrows her eyes as she gazes at the sleeping prisoner. "Really?" To be honest, she's had enough of Queens in this town, and she's not sure she's ready to find out another one is on her way to Storybrooke.

As the morning wears on, Killian doesn't reply to her text. She tries not to read too much into it, tries not to behave like she's suffering from post-date-phone-call syndrome, but it's unlike him not to respond to her messages.

When she sees Will Scarlett finally stirring, she seizes on the distraction. Picking up the book and the torn page, she waltzes across the station to his cell, given him a cheerful greeting. As she expects, he is not impressed, and neither is he forthcoming with any details when it comes to his late night visit to the library. He's lying, of course, and on any other morning, she might be pissed, but she's feeling pretty damned good today.

As if the thought has conjured him (he's certainly a big factor in why she's feeling so good this morning), she hears the sound of Killian's boots on the hard station floor behind her, and she turns with a grin. "Where were _you_?"

Killian looks a bit rough around the edges, but that only makes her pulse do a quick little cha-cha. "Sorry, love, I just got your message," he begins to apologise, then stares over her shoulder at Will, and something belligerent simmers in the air between them. Before the situation can get any more awkward, Emma gives him a reassuring smile.

"It's okay, I just need another minute here." She turns back to Will, who is still glaring at Killian. She guesses that's normal when someone's roughed you up the night before in the middle of a restaurant. "You were about to tell me who did that to your face."

"It's a bloody mystery to me," Will declares in a sing-song voice that's like fingernails down a blackboard. "Your guess is as good as mine. Must have been some party, hey?"

He's lying, just as he was lying about the book, but Emma can wait. If he thinks she's giving up this soon, he's underestimated her tolerance for handsome renegades with vaguely British accents. "Well, if you remember anything, I'll know where to find you."

With that, his blasé expression cracks. "You just gonna keep me in here because I broke into a bloody library?"

_Breaking and entering, resisting arrest, disobeying an officer of the law, theft, you name it. _Maybe if he hadn't feed her a steady stream of lies she might give him a straight answer back, but right now, she can't say he deserves one. _"_Because you crashed my date." She looks at him long enough to see the silent outrage in his dark eyes (she's got to admit, it's pretty satisfying), then turns to the man behind her, who is watching her anxiously. "Which turned out pretty good despite the rude interruption," she begins, her low murmur meant for his ears only. She reaches out to touch his arm, then blinks, because his hook is back. "What the hell happened to your hand?"

His smile is strained, and his expression guarded. "It appears the Dark One's magic wasn't all I hoped it would be."

There's a sadness in his eyes that makes her heart clench, and she opens her mouth to tell him that she _doesn't care_ if he has one hand or two and that she never has, then David calls her name and the moment is lost.

_They'll have that second date_, she reminds herself as she finds herself sliding deeper and deeper into the mire of confusion that the Snow Queen has woven, _and when they do, she can make sure he knows how she feels about it._

* * *

><p>They don't have a second date.<p>

It's the last thing he wants to do, but his desire to protect her and the need to buy himself time to find a solution call for desperate measures, and letting Emma Swan believe that he no longer wishes to court her is one of the most desperate measures he's ever taken.

At first, it's not hard to plead weariness or other pressing matters. There is a murderous ice queen in town, after all. However, Emma Swan is a very intelligent woman (just one of the many things he loves about her) and it doesn't take her long to pin him down (only figuratively, sadly) at Granny's and demand an audience.

"I think you need to tell me what the hell is going on with you."

He wraps his hand around his coffee mug, vaguely hoping its warmth might soothe his chilled palm. "It's like you used to say, Swan." His voice sounds bitter even to his own ears, and he hates himself a little more with every new word he utters. "There's a crisis happening at the moment."

Her lovely mouth firms into a tight, stubborn line. "Yeah, well, like _you _said, there's always a crisis." Reaching out across the table, she wraps her fingers around the brace on his left arm. "Whether you like it or not, I know you pretty well now, and I_ know _there's something you're not telling me." She hesitates, her green eyes filling with the memory of a darker time between them, then presses on. "Has someone cursed you?" The hand on his arm tightens in unison with the dread that pulls at his chest. "Made it so it's not safe for you to be around me?"

She's skating dangerously close to the heart of the matter, and his own heartbeat begins to race. "No."

"A skeleton in your closet come back to haunt you?" She shakes her head at him, frustration glittering in her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you that I don't care what you might have done in the past?"

The past? Oh, how he dearly wishes that were the case. Looking at her beautiful face, he sees the worry in her eyes, and despite everything, knowing she's worried for _him_ makes his spirits lift, if only a little. "What if I told you my wrongdoings are far more recent, love?"

Her gaze searches his face, her eyes locking with his. "Okay, so it might have taken me a while, but I trust you to keep believing in me, no matter what." Her vivid green eyes are clear and wide, and he feels like a drowning man at sea. "Why can't you trust me to do the same for you?"

The bell above Granny's front door jangles, and his gut tightens at the sight of the Crocodile and his wife entering the premises, the poor girl smiling at the Dark One as though he's her dream come true. The Crocodile's expression is smug. Across the open space, his eyes meet Killian's. As his companion's attention turns to a conversation with Granny, the Crocodile lifts one hand (his left hand) in a mocking wave. A white-hot anger starts to burn deep inside Killian's heart, but somehow he manages the self-control to merely give the other man a polite nod.

The Crocodile looks faintly disappointed, and that's when Killian makes his decision.

Because a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.

He turns back to her, forcing himself to ignore the man he knows is still watching them. "May we speak in private?"

Visibly startled by the sudden request, she glances at the empty booths around them. "Here not private enough for you?"

He covers her hand with his, threading his fingers through hers, a simple pleasure he hasn't allowed himself to enjoy in several days. "Please."

She nods easily enough, but he sees the fear at the back of her eyes. She's afraid of what he's going to tell her, and he knows she's right to feel that way. "Let's go back to the station."

Ten minutes later, they're sitting in an empty sheriff's station (Will Scarlett has long been released back into the general population), their knees almost touching as Emma leans forward on her chair, her eyes fixed on his face. "This is as private as it's going to get, so shoot."

He closes his eyes, wanting to imprint on his memory the way she's looking at him right now, open and hopeful and caring. He doesn't want to lose her, but he cannot lie to her.

Curling his hand into a loose fist, he rests it on his knee as he takes a deep breath (he cannot touch her while he tells this tale) and begins to speak.

He doesn't look at her.

He tells her everything.

His suspicions over the dagger. Using those suspicions to ensure the Dark One assisted Elsa. Pushing his luck, going too far, asking for the return of his hand in exchange for his continued silence.

The Dark One's warning.

(She inhales sharply at that, but he doesn't dare look at her, not yet.)

The darkness that had come over him during the evening of their dinner date, how he'd felt as though his own flesh was no longer under his control. How he'd come across Scarlett trying to break into the library and done his best to talk him out of it, then the red veil of rage that had dropped over his eyes, his left arm swinging without conscious thought. The horror when he'd realised what he'd done.

He smells her perfume a split-second before he feels her hands on his knees. "You should have told me."

Finally, he lifts his gaze, his words sticking in his throat at the sight of her eyes glittering with tears. "I only wished to spare you any distress, love." She opens her mouth as if to speak, and he holds up his hand. "Wait. I'm afraid we've yet to reach the sordid conclusion of this tale."

Reaching into the air between them, she catches his hand, entwining her fingers with his, her eyes never leaving his. "Tell me everything, then we'll fix it."

Gazing into her eyes, he almost believes her. "I'm afraid it's not that simple." Another deep breath, then he tells her the rest of it, not bothering to keep his self-loathing hidden. He has no secrets from this woman, not anymore.

Never again.

When he's finished, she lets go of his hand and pushes back her chair with a jerk. Getting to her feet, she picks up the empty coffee mug from her desk and flings at the wall, hard. They both watch it fall to the floor, white shards of china scattering, and when she turns back to him, her eyes are ablaze with furious tears. She's never looked more beautiful, and he hates himself for the thought.

His own eyes are burning. "Emma, I'm so sorry."

"I'm not angry at you." She looks at him, her lips trembling, and his arms ache with the urge to gather her close. "Well, maybe a little at you, but I'll get over it." Leaning forward, she puts both hands flat on her desk, her head bowed. "How many lives does Gold need to wreck before he's satisfied?"

"He's the Dark One." He rises to his feet, slowly coming to stand by her side, his relief making his knees feel like water. "He'll never be satisfied."

Her hand is cold when she entwines her fingers through his, her other hand curling around his hook brace. "Well, I'm the Saviour." There's anger in her voice, the likes of which he's never heard. "And _I _say he's taken more than enough from you." Then she's kissing him, her mouth gentle despite the anger he can still feel surging through her, her hands gripping him tightly, and he can scarcely believe he's holding her after everything she's just learned.

(With only one hand, but that no longer matters.)

When it's over, they sway together, her cheek pressed hard against his. "Whatever we do to fix this, we do it together." Her arms snake around his waist, and he finally allows himself to pull her tight against him, feeling the fierce hammering of her heart against his. "And for the record, I don't give a damn how many hands you have." The trembling in her voice raises an echo in his blood, making him feel breathless, almost giddy. "Am I making myself clear?"

The salt of her tears still on his tongue, he nods, his heart so full that there is barely room in his chest for him to take a breath. "Crystal, love."


End file.
